Sordello: Book The Second

The woods were long austere with snow: at last     Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast     Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes,     Brightened, "as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods     "Our buried year, a witch, grew young again     "To placid incantations, and that stain     "About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent     "With those black pines" so Eglamor gave vent     To a chance fancy. Whence a just rebuke     From his companion; brother Naddo shook     The solemnest of brows: "Beware," he said,     "Of setting up conceits in nature's stead!"     Forth wandered our Sordello. Nought so sure     As that to-day's adventure will secure     Palma, the visioned lady only pass     O'er you damp mound and its exhausted grass,     Under that brake where sundawn feeds the stalks     Of withered fern with gold, into those walks     Of pine and take her! Buoyantly he went.     Again his stooping forehead was besprent     With dew-drops from the skirting ferns. Then wide     Opened the great morass, shot every side     With flashing water through and through; a-shine,     Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine,     Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced     Athwart the flying herons? He advanced,     But warily; though Mincio leaped no more,     Each foot-fall burst up in the marish-floor     A diamond jet: and if he stopped to pick     Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick,     And circling blood-worms, minnow, newt or loach,     A sudden pond would silently encroach     This way and that. On Palma passed. The verge     Of a new wood was gained. She will emerge     Flushed, now, and panting, crowds to see, will own     She loves him Boniface to hear, to groan,     To leave his suit! One screen of pine-trees still     Opposes: but the startling spectacle     Mantua, this time! Under the walls a crowd     Indeed, real men and women, gay and loud     Round a pavilion. How he stood!     In truth     No prophecy had come to pass: his youth     In its prime now and where was homage poured     Upon Sordello? born to be adored,     And suddenly discovered weak, scarce made     To cope with any, cast into the shade     By this and this. Yet something seemed to prick     And tingle in his blood; a sleight a trick     And much would be explained. It went for nought     The best of their endowments were ill bought     With his identity: nay, the conceit,     That this day's roving led to Palma's feet     Was not so vain list! The word, "Palma!" Steal     Aside, and die, Sordello; this is real,     And this abjure!     What next? The curtains see     Dividing! She is there; and presently     He will be there the proper You, at length     In your own cherished dress of grace and strength:     Most like, the very Boniface!     Not so.     It was a showy man advanced; but though     A glad cry welcomed him, then every sound     Sank and the crowd disposed themselves around,     "This is not he," Sordello felt; while, "Place     "For the best Troubadour of Boniface!"     Hollaed the Jongleurs, "Eglamor, whose lay     "Concludes his patron's Court of Love to-day!"     Obsequious Naddo strung the master's lute     With the new lute-string, "Elys," named to suit     The song: he stealthily at watch, the while,     Biting his lip to keep down a great smile     Of pride: then up he struck. Sordello's brain     Swam; for he knew a sometime deed again;     So, could supply each foolish gap and chasm     The minstrel left in his enthusiasm,     Mistaking its true version was the tale     Not of Apollo? Only, what avail     Luring her down, that Elys an he pleased,     If the man dared no further? Has he ceased     And, lo, the people's frank applause half done,     Sordello was beside him, had begun     (Spite of indignant twitchings from his friend     The Trouvere) the true lay with the true end,     Taking the other's names and time and place     For his. On flew the song, a giddy race,     After the flying story; word made leap     Out word, rhyme rhyme; the lay could barely keep     Pace with the action visibly rushing past:     Both ended. Back fell Naddo more aghast     Than some Egyptian from the harassed bull     That wheeled abrupt and, bellowing, fronted full     His plague, who spied a scarab 'neath the tongue,     And found 't was Apis' flank his hasty prong     Insulted. But the people but the cries,     The crowding round, and proffering the prize!     For he had gained some prize. He seemed to shrink     Into a sleepy cloud, just at whose brink     One sight withheld him. There sat Adelaide,     Silent; but at her knees the very maid     Of the North Chamber, her red lips as rich,     The same pure fleecy hair; one weft of which,     Golden and great, quite touched his cheek as o'er     She leant, speaking some six words and no more.     He answered something, anything; and she     Unbound a scarf and laid it heavily     Upon him, her neck's warmth and all. Again     Moved the arrested magic; in his brain     Noises grew, and a light that turned to glare,     And greater glare, until the intense flare     Engulfed him, shut the whole scene from his sense.     And when he woke 't was many a furlong thence,     At home; the sun shining his ruddy wont;     The customary birds'-chirp; but his front     Was crowned was crowned! Her scented scarf around     His neck! Whose gorgeous vesture heaps the ground?     A prize? He turned, and peeringly on him     Brooded the women-faces, kind and dim,     Ready to talk "The Jongleurs in a troop     "Had brought him back, Naddo and Squarcialupe     "And Tagliafer; how strange! a childhood spent     "In taking, well for him, so brave a bent!     "Since Eglamor," they heard, "was dead with spite,     "And Palma chose him for her minstrel."     Light     Sordello rose to think, now; hitherto     He had perceived. Sure, a discovery grew     Out of it all! Best live from first to last     The transport o'er again. A week he passed,     Sucking the sweet out of each circumstance,     From the bard's outbreak to the luscious trance     Bounding his own achievement. Strange! A man     Recounted an adventure, but began     Imperfectly; his own task was to fill     The frame-work up, sing well what he sung ill,     Supply the necessary points, set loose     As many incidents of little use     More imbecile the other, not to see     Their relative importance clear as he!     But, for a special pleasure in the act     Of singing had he ever turned, in fact,     From Elys, to sing Elys? from each fit     Of rapture to contrive a song of it?     True, this snatch or the other seemed to wind     Into a treasure, helped himself to find     A beauty in himself; for, see, he soared     By means of that mere snatch, to many a hoard     Of fancies; as some falling cone bears soft     The eye along the fir-tree-spire, aloft     To a dove's nest. Then, how divine the cause     Why such performance should exact applause     From men, if they had fancies too? Did fate     Decree they found a beauty separate     In the poor snatch itself? "Take Elys, there,     "'Her head that 's sharp and perfect like a pear,     "'So close and smooth are laid the few fine locks     "'Coloured like honey oozed from topmost rocks     "'Sun-blanched the livelong summer' if they heard     "Just those two rhymes, assented at my word,     "And loved them as I love them who have run     "These fingers through those pale locks, let the sun     "Into the white cool skin who first could clutch,     "Then praise I needs must be a god to such.     "Or what if some, above themselves, and yet     "Beneath me, like their Eglamor, have set     "An impress on our gift? So, men believe     "And worship what they know not, nor receive     "Delight from. Have they fancies slow, perchance,     "Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance     "Until, by song, each floating part be linked     "To each, and all grow palpable, distinct?"     He pondered this.     Meanwhile, sounds low and drear     Stole on him, and a noise of footsteps, near     And nearer, while the underwood was pushed     Aside, the larches grazed, the dead leaves crushed     At the approach of men. The wind seemed laid;     Only, the trees shrunk slightly and a shade     Came o'er the sky although 't was midday yet:     You saw each half-shut downcast floweret     Flutter "a Roman bride, when they 'd dispart     "Her unbound tresses with the Sabine dart,     "Holding that famous rape in memory still,     "Felt creep into her curls the iron chill,     "And looked thus," Eglamor would say indeed     'T is Eglamor, no other, these precede     Home hither in the woods. "'T were surely sweet     "Far from the scene of one's forlorn defeat     "To sleep!" judged Naddo, who in person led     Jongleurs and Trouveres, chanting at their head,     A scanty company; for, sooth to say,     Our beaten Troubadour had seen his day.     Old worshippers were something shamed, old friends     Nigh weary; still the death proposed amends.     "Let us but get them safely through my song     "And home again!" quoth Naddo.     All along,     This man (they rest the bier upon the sand)     This calm corpse with the loose flowers in his hand,     Eglamor, lived Sordello's opposite.     For him indeed was Naddo's notion right,     And verse a temple-worship vague and vast,     A ceremony that withdrew the last     Opposing bolt, looped back the lingering veil     Which hid the holy place: should one so frail     Stand there without such effort? or repine     If much was blank, uncertain at the shrine     He knelt before, till, soothed by many a rite,     The power responded, and some sound or sight     Grew up, his own forever, to be fixed,     In rhyme, the beautiful, forever! mixed     With his own life, unloosed when he should please,     Having it safe at hand, ready to ease     All pain, remove all trouble; every time     He loosed that fancy from its bonds of rhyme,     (Like Perseus when he loosed his naked love)     Faltering; so distinct and far above     Himself, these fancies! He, no genius rare,     Transfiguring in fire or wave or air     At will, but a poor gnome that, cloistered up     In some rock-chamber with his agate cup,     His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few     And their arrangement finds enough to do     For his best art. Then, how he loved that art!     The calling marking him a man apart     From men one not to care, take counsel for     Cold hearts, comfortless faces (Eglamor     Was neediest of his tribe) since verse, the gift,     Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift     Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth     And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth.     So, Eglamor was not without his pride!     The sorriest bat which cowers throughout noontide     While other birds are jocund, has one time     When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime     Of earth is his to claim, nor find a peer;     And Eglamor was noblest poet here     He well knew, 'mid those April woods he cast     Conceits upon in plenty as he passed,     That Naddo might suppose him not to think     Entirely on the coming triumph: wink     At the one weakness! 'T was a fervid child,     That song of his; no brother of the guild     Had e'er conceived its like. The rest you know,     The exaltation and the overthrow:     Our poet lost his purpose, lost his rank,     His life to that it came. Yet envy sank     Within him, as he heard Sordello out,     And, for the first time, shouted tried to shout     Like others, not from any zeal to show     Pleasure that way: the common sort did so,     What else was Eglamor? who, bending down     As they, placed his beneath Sordello's crown,     Printed a kiss on his successor's hand,     Left one great tear on it, then joined his band     In time; for some were watching at the door:     Who knows what envy may effect? "Give o'er,     "Nor charm his lips, nor craze him!" (here one spied     And disengaged the withered crown) "Beside     "His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang     "To answer yours! nay, sing them!" And he sang     Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait     His coming, zealous to congratulate;     But, to a man so quickly runs report     Could do no less than leave him, and escort     His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought:     What must his future life be? was he brought     So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn?     At length he said, "Best sleep now with my scorn,     "And by to-morrow I devise some plain     "Expedient!" So, he slept, nor woke again.     They found as much, those friends, when they returned     O'erflowing with the marvels they had learned     About Sordello's paradise, his roves     Among the hills and vales and plains and groves,     Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast,     Polished by slow degrees, completed last     To Eglamor's discomfiture and death.     Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath,     They lay the beaten man in his abode,     Naddo reciting that same luckless ode,     Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore     By means of it, however, one step more     In joy; and, mastering the round at length,     Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength,     When from his covert forth he stood, addressed     Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest,     Primval pines o'ercanopy his couch,     And, most of all, his fame (shall I avouch     Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look,     And laughed as from his brow Sordello took     The crown, and laid on the bard's breast, and said     It was a crown, now, fit for poet's head?)     Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell.     A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell     Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails     Till evening; evening gives it to her gales     To clear away with such forgotten things     As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings     Him to their mind, and bears his very name.     So much for Eglamor. My own month came;     'T was a sunrise of blossoming and May.     Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay     Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars     That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars     Dug up at Bai, when the south wind shed     The ripest, made him happier; filleted     And robed the same, only a lute beside     Lay on the turf. Before him far and wide     The country stretched: Goito slept behind     The castle and its covert, which confined     Him with his hopes and fears; so fain of old     To leave the story of his birth untold.     At intervals, 'spite the fantastic glow     Of his Apollo-life, a certain low     And wretched whisper, winding through the bliss,     Admonished, no such fortune could be his,     All was quite false and sure to fade one day:     The closelier drew he round him his array     Of brilliance to expel the truth. But when     A reason for his difference from men     Surprised him at the grave, he took no rest     While aught of that old life, superbly dressed     Down to its meanest incident, remained     A mystery: alas, they soon explained     Away Apollo! and the tale amounts     To this: when at Vicenza both her counts     Banished the Vivaresi kith and kin,     Those Maltraversi hung on Ecelin,     Reviled him as he followed; he for spite     Must fire their quarter, though that self-same night     Among the flames young Ecelin was born     Of Adelaide, there too, and barely torn     From the roused populace hard on the rear,     By a poor archer when his chieftain's fear     Grew high; into the thick Elcorte leapt,     Saved her, and died; no creature left except     His child to thank. And when the full escape     Was known how men impaled from chine to nape     Unlucky Prata, all to pieces spurned     Bishop Pistore's concubines, and burned     Taurello's entire household, flesh and fell,     Missing the sweeter prey such courage well     Might claim reward. The orphan, ever since,     Sordello, had been nurtured by his prince     Within a blind retreat where Adelaide     (For, once this notable discovery made,     The past at every point was understood)     Might harbour easily when times were rude,     When Azzo schemed for Palma, to retrieve     That pledge of Agnes Este loth to leave     Mantua unguarded with a vigilant eye,     While there Taurello bode ambiguously     He who could have no motive now to moil     For his own fortunes since their utter spoil     As it were worth while yet (went the report)     To disengage himself from her. In short,     Apollo vanished; a mean youth, just named     His lady's minstrel, was to be proclaimed     How shall I phrase it? Monarch of the World!     For, on the day when that array was furled     Forever, and in place of one a slave     To longings, wild indeed, but longings save     In dreams as wild, suppressed one daring not     Assume the mastery such dreams allot,     Until a magical equipment, strength,     Grace, wisdom, decked him too, he chose at length,     Content with unproved wits and failing frame,     In virtue of his simple will, to claim     That mastery, no less to do his best     With means so limited, and let the rest     Go by, the seal was set: never again     Sordello could in his own sight remain     One of the many, one with hopes and cares     And interests nowise distinct from theirs,     Only peculiar in a thriveless store     Of fancies, which were fancies and no more;     Never again for him and for the crowd     A common law was challenged and allowed     If calmly reasoned of, howe'er denied     By a mad impulse nothing justified     Short of Apollo's presence. The divorce     Is clear: why needs Sordello square his course     By any known example? Men no more     Compete with him than tree and flower before.     Himself, inactive, yet is greater far     Than such as act, each stooping to his star,     Acquiring thence his function; he has gained     The same result with meaner mortals trained     To strength or beauty, moulded to express     Each the idea that rules him; since no less     He comprehends that function, but can still     Embrace the others, take of might his fill     With Richard as of grace with Palma, mix     Their qualities, or for a moment fix     On one; abiding free meantime, uncramped     By any partial organ, never stamped     Strong, and to strength turning all energies     Wise, and restricted to becoming wise     That is, he loves not, nor possesses One     Idea that, star-like over, lures him on     To its exclusive purpose. "Fortunate!     "This flesh of mine ne'er strove to emulate     "A soul so various took no casual mould     "Of the first fancy and, contracted, cold,     "Clogged her forever soul averse to change     "As flesh: whereas flesh leaves soul free to range,     "Remains itself a blank, cast into shade,     "Encumbers little, if it cannot aid.     "So, range, free soul! who, by self-consciousness,     "The last drop of all beauty dost express     "The grace of seeing grace, a quintessence     "For thee: while for the world, that can dispense     "Wonder on men who, themselves, wonder make     "A shift to love at second-hand, and take     "For idols those who do but idolize,     "Themselves, the world that counts men strong or wise,     "Who, themselves, court strength, wisdom, it shall bow     "Surely in unexampled worship now,     "Discerning me!"     (Dear monarch, I beseech,     Notice how lamentably wide a breach     Is here: discovering this, discover too     What our poor world has possibly to do     With it! As pigmy natures as you please     So much the better for you; take your ease,     Look on, and laugh; style yourself God alone;     Strangle some day with a cross olive-stone!     All that is right enough: but why want us     To know that you yourself know thus and thus?)     "The world shall bow to me conceiving all     "Man's life, who see its blisses, great and small,     "Afar not tasting any; no machine     "To exercise my utmost will is mine:     "Be mine mere consciousness! Let men perceive     "What I could do, a mastery believe,     "Asserted and established to the throng     "By their selected evidence of song     "Which now shall prove, whate'er they are, or seek     "To be, I am whose words, not actions speak,     "Who change no standards of perfection, vex     "With no strange forms created to perplex,     "But just perform their bidding and no more,     "At their own satiating-point give o'er,     "While each shall love in me the love that leads     "His soul to power's perfection." Song, not deeds,     (For we get tired) was chosen. Fate would brook     Mankind no other organ; he would look     For not another channel to dispense     His own volition by, receive men's sense     Of its supremacy would live content,     Obstructed else, with merely verse for vent.     Nor should, for instance, strength an outlet seek     And, striving, be admired: nor grace bespeak     Wonder, displayed in gracious attitudes:     Nor wisdom, poured forth, change unseemly moods;     But he would give and take on song's one point.     Like some huge throbbing stone that, poised a-joint,     Sounds, to affect on its basaltic bed,     Must sue in just one accent; tempests shed     Thunder, and raves the windstorm: only let     That key by any little noise be set     The far benighted hunter's halloo pitch     On that, the hungry curlew chance to scritch     Or serpent hiss it, rustling through the rift,     However loud, however low all lift     The groaning monster, stricken to the heart.     Lo ye, the world's concernment, for its part,     And this, for his, will hardly interfere!     Its businesses in blood and blaze this year     But wile the hour away a pastime slight     Till he shall step upon the platform: right!     And, now thus much is settled, cast in rough,     Proved feasible, be counselled! thought enough,     Slumber, Sordello! any day will serve:     Were it a less digested plan! how swerve     To-morrow? Meanwhile eat these sun-dried grapes,     And watch the soaring hawk there! Life escapes     Merrily thus.     He thoroughly read o'er     His truchman Naddo's missive six times more,     Praying him visit Mantua and supply     A famished world.     The evening star was high     When he reached Mantua, but his fame arrived     Before him: friends applauded, foes connived,     And Naddo looked an angel, and the rest     Angels, and all these angels would be blest     Supremely by a song the thrice-renowned     Goito-manufacture. Then he found     (Casting about to satisfy the crowd)     That happy vehicle, so late allowed,     A sore annoyance; 't was the song's effect     He cared for, scarce the song itself: reflect!     In the past life, what might be singing's use?     Just to delight his Delians, whose profuse     Praise, not the toilsome process which procured     That praise, enticed Apollo: dreams abjured,     No overleaping means for ends take both     For granted or take neither! I am loth     To say the rhymes at last were Eglamor's;     But Naddo, chuckling, bade competitors     Go pine; "the master certes meant to waste     "No effort, cautiously had probed the taste     "He 'd please anon: true bard, in short, disturb     "His title if they could; nor spur nor curb,     "Fancy nor reason, wanting in him; whence     "The staple of his verses, common sense:     "He built on man's broad nature gift of gifts,     "That power to build! The world contented shifts     "With counterfeits enough, a dreary sort     "Of warriors, statesmen, ere it can extort     "Its poet-soul that 's, after all, a freak     "(The having eyes to see and tongue to speak)     "With our herd's stupid sterling happiness     "So plainly incompatible that yes     "Yes should a son of his improve the breed     "And turn out poet, he were cursed indeed!"     "Well, there 's Goito and its woods anon,     "If the worst happen; best go stoutly on     "Now!" thought Sordello.     Ay, and goes on yet!     You pother with your glossaries to get     A notion of the Troubadour's intent     In rondel, tenzon, virlai or sirvent     Much as you study arras how to twirl     His angelot, plaything of page and girl     Once; but you surely reach, at last, or, no!     Never quite reach what struck the people so,     As from the welter of their time he drew     Its elements successively to view,     Followed all actions backward on their course,     And catching up, unmingled at the source,     Such a strength, such a weakness, added then     A touch or two, and turned them into men.     Virtue took form, nor vice refused a shape;     Here heaven opened, there was hell agape,     As Saint this simpered past in sanctity,     Sinner the other flared portentous by     A greedy people. Then why stop, surprised     At his success? The scheme was realized     Too suddenly in one respect: a crowd     Praising, eyes quick to see, and lips as loud     To speak, delicious homage to receive,     The woman's breath to feel upon his sleeve,     Who said, "But Anafest why asks he less     "Than Lucio, in your verses? how confess,     "It seemed too much but yestereve!" the youth,     Who bade him earnestly, "Avow the truth!     "You love Bianca, surely, from your song;     "I knew I was unworthy!" soft or strong,     In poured such tributes ere he had arranged     Ethereal ways to take them, sorted, changed,     Digested. Courted thus at unawares,     In spite of his pretensions and his cares,     He caught himself shamefully hankering     After the obvious petty joys that spring     From true life, fain relinquish pedestal     And condescend with pleasures one and all     To be renounced, no doubt; for, thus to chain     Himself to single joys and so refrain     From tasting their quintessence, frustrates, sure,     His prime design; each joy must he abjure     Even for love of it.     He laughed: what sage     But perishes if from his magic page     He look because, at the first line, a proof     'T was heard salutes him from the cavern roof?     "On! Give yourself, excluding aught beside,     "To the day's task; compel your slave provide     "Its utmost at the soonest; turn the leaf     "Thoroughly conned. These lays of yours, in brief     "Cannot men bear, now, something better? fly     "A pitch beyond this unreal pageantry     "Of essences? the period sure has ceased     "For such: present us with ourselves, at least,     "Not portions of ourselves, mere loves and hates     "Made flesh: wait not!"     Awhile the poet waits     However. The first trial was enough:     He left imagining, to try the stuff     That held the imaged thing, and, let it writhe     Never so fiercely, scarce allowed a tithe     To reach the light his Language. How he sought     The cause, conceived a cure, and slow re-wrought     That Language, welding words into the crude     Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude     Armour was hammered out, in time to be     Approved beyond the Roman panoply     Melted to make it, boots not. This obtained     With some ado, no obstacle remained     To using it; accordingly he took     An action with its actors, quite forsook     Himself to live in each, returned anon     With the result a creature, and, by one     And one, proceeded leisurely to equip     Its limbs in harness of his workmanship.     "Accomplished! Listen, Mantuans!" Fond essay!     Piece after piece that armour broke away,     Because perceptions whole, like that he sought     To clothe, reject so pure a work of thought     As language: thought may take perception's place     But hardly co-exist in any case,     Being its mere presentment of the whole     By parts, the simultaneous and the sole     By the successive and the many. Lacks     The crowd perception? painfully it tacks     Thought to thought, which Sordello, needing such,     Has rent perception into: it's to clutch     And reconstruct his office to diffuse,     Destroy: as hard, then, to obtain a Muse     As to become Apollo. "For the rest,     "E'en if some wondrous vehicle expressed     "The whole dream, what impertinence in me     "So to express it, who myself can be     "The dream! nor, on the other hand, are those     "I sing to, over-likely to suppose     "A higher than the highest I present     "Now, which they praise already: be content     "Both parties, rather they with the old verse,     "And I with the old praise far go, fare worse!"     A few adhering rivets loosed, upsprings     The angel, sparkles off his mail, which rings     Whirled from each delicatest limb it warps;     So might Apollo from the sudden corpse     Of Hyacinth have cast his luckless quoits.     He set to celebrating the exploits     Of Montfort o'er the Mountaineers.     Then came     The world's revenge: their pleasure, now his aim     Merely, what was it? "Not to play the fool     "So much as learn our lesson in your school!"     Replied the world. He found that, every time     He gained applause by any ballad-rhyme,     His auditory recognized no jot     As he intended, and, mistaking not     Him for his meanest hero, ne'er was dunce     Sufficient to believe him all, at once.     His will . . . conceive it caring for his will!     Mantuans, the main of them, admiring still     How a mere singer, ugly, stunted, weak,     Had Montfort at completely (so to speak)     His fingers' ends; while past the praise-tide swept     To Montfort, either's share distinctly kept:     The true meed for true merit! his abates     Into a sort he most repudiates,     And on them angrily he turns. Who were     The Mantuans, after all, that he should care     About their recognition, ay or no?     In spite of the convention months ago,     (Why blink the truth?) was not he forced to help     This same ungrateful audience, every whelp     Of Naddo's litter, make them pass for peers     With the bright band of old Goito years,     As erst he toiled for flower or tree? Why, there     Sat Palma! Adelaide's funereal hair     Ennobled the next corner. Ay, he strewed     A fairy dust upon that multitude,     Although he feigned to take them by themselves;     His giants dignified those puny elves,     Sublimed their faint applause. In short, he found     Himself still footing a delusive round,     Remote as ever from the self-display     He meant to compass, hampered every way     By what he hoped assistance. Wherefore then     Continue, make believe to find in men     A use he found not?     Weeks, months, years went by     And lo, Sordello vanished utterly,     Sundered in twain; each spectral part at strife     With each; one jarred against another life;     The Poet thwarting hopelessly the Man     Who, fooled no longer, free in fancy ran     Here, there: let slip no opportunities     As pitiful, forsooth, beside the prize     To drop on him some no-time and acquit     His constant faith (the Poet-half's to wit     That waiving any compromise between     No joy and all joy kept the hunger keen     Beyond most methods) of incurring scoff     From the Man-portion not to be put off     With self-reflectings by the Poet's scheme,     Though ne'er so bright. Who sauntered forth in dream,     Dressed any how, nor waited mystic frames,     Immeasurable gifts, astounding claims,     But just his sorry self? who yet might be     Sorrier for aught he in reality     Achieved, so pinioned Man's the Poet-part,     Fondling, in turn of fancy, verse; the Art     Developing his soul a thousand ways     Potent, by its assistance, to amaze     The multitude with majesties, convince     Each sort of nature that the nature's prince     Accosted it. Language, the makeshift, grew     Into a bravest of expedients, too;     Apollo, seemed it now, perverse had thrown     Quiver and bow away, the lyre alone     Sufficed. While, out of dream, his day's work went     To tune a crazy tenzon or sirvent     So hampered him the Man-part, thrust to judge     Between the bard and the bard's audience, grudge     A minute's toil that missed its due reward!     But the complete Sordello, Man and Bard,     John's cloud-girt angel, this foot on the land,     That on the sea, with, open in his hand,     A bitter-sweetling of a book was gone.     Then, if internal struggles to be one,     Which frittered him incessantly piecemeal,     Referred, ne'er so obliquely, to the real     Intruding Mantuans! ever with some call     To action while he pondered, once for all,     Which looked the easier effort to pursue     This course, still leap o'er paltry joys, yearn through     The present ill-appreciated stage     Of self-revealment, and compel the age     Know him or else, forswearing bard-craft, wake     From out his lethargy and nobly shake     Off timid habits of denial, mix     With men, enjoy like men. Ere he could fix     On aught, in rushed the Mantuans; much they cared     For his perplexity! Thus unprepared,     The obvious if not only shelter lay     In deeds, the dull conventions of his day     Prescribed the like of him: why not be glad     'T is settled Palma's minstrel, good or bad,     Submits to this and that established rule?     Let Vidal change, or any other fool,     His murrey-coloured robe for filamot,     And crop his hair; too skin-deep, is it not,     Such vigour? Then, a sorrow to the heart,     His talk! Whatever topics they might start     Had to be groped for in his consciousness     Straight, and as straight delivered them by guess.     Only obliged to ask himself, "What was,"     A speedy answer followed; but, alas,     One of God's large ones, tardy to condense     Itself into a period; answers whence     A tangle of conclusions must be stripped     At any risk ere, trim to pattern clipped,     They matched rare specimens the Mantuan flock     Regaled him with, each talker from his stock     Of sorted-o'er opinions, every stage,     Juicy in youth or desiccate with age,     Fruits like the fig-tree's, rathe-ripe, rotten-rich,     Sweet-sour, all tastes to take: a practice which     He too had not impossibly attained,     Once either of those fancy-flights restrained;     (For, at conjecture how might words appear     To others, playing there what happened here,     And occupied abroad by what he spurned     At home, 't was slipped, the occasion he returned     To seize he 'd strike that lyre adroitly speech,     Would but a twenty-cubit plectre reach;     A clever hand, consummate instrument,     Were both brought close; each excellency went     For nothing, else. The question Naddo asked,     Had just a lifetime moderately tasked     To answer, Naddo's fashion. More disgust     And more: why move his soul, since move it must     At minute's notice or as good it failed     To move at all? The end was, he retailed     Some ready-made opinion, put to use     This quip, that maxim, ventured reproduce     Gestures and tones at any folly caught     Serving to finish with, nor too much sought     If false or true 't was spoken; praise and blame     Of what he said grew pretty nigh the same     Meantime awards to meantime acts: his soul,     Unequal to the compassing a whole,     Saw, in a tenth part, less and less to strive     About. And as for men in turn . . . contrive     Who could to take eternal interest     In them, so hate the worst, so love the best,     Though, in pursuance of his passive plan,     He hailed, decried, the proper way.     As Man     So figured he; and how as Poet? Verse     Came only not to a stand-still. The worse,     That his poor piece of daily work to do     Was not sink under any rivals; who     Loudly and long enough, without these qualms,     Turned, from Bocafoli's stark-naked psalms,     To Plara's sonnets spoilt by toying with,     "As knops that stud some almug to the pith     "Prickd for gum, wry thence, and crinkld worse     "Than pursd eyelids of a river-horse     "Sunning himself o' the slime when whirrs the breese"     Gad-fly, that is. He might compete with these!     But but     "Observe a pompion-twine afloat;     "Pluck me one cup from off the castle-moat!     "Along with cup you raise leaf, stalk and root,     "The entire surface of the pool to boot.     "So could I pluck a cup, put in one song     "A single sight, did not my hand, too strong,     "Twitch in the least the root-strings of the whole.     "How should externals satisfy my soul?"     "Why that's precise the error Squarcialupe"     (Hazarded Naddo) "finds; 'the man can't stoop     "'To sing us out,' quoth he, 'a mere romance;     "'He'd fain do better than the best, enhance     "'The subjects' rarity, work problems out     "'Therewith.' Now, you 're a bard, a bard past doubt,     "And no philosopher; why introduce     "Crotchets like these? fine, surely, but no use     "In poetry which still must be, to strike,     "Based upon common sense; there's nothing like     "Appealing to our nature! what beside     "Was your first poetry? No tricks were tried     "In that, no hollow thrills, affected throes!     "'The man,' said we, 'tells his own joys and woes:     "'We'll trust him.' Would you have your songs endure?     "Build on the human heart! why, to be sure     "Yours is one sort of heart but I mean theirs,     "Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares     "To build on! Central peace, mother of strength,     "That's father of . . . nay, go yourself that length,     "Ask those calm-hearted doers what they do     "When they have got their calm! And is it true,     "Fire rankles at the heart of every globe?     "Perhaps. But these are matters one may probe     "Too deeply for poetic purposes:     "Rather select a theory that . . . yes,     "Laugh! what does that prove? stations you midway     "And saves some little o'er-refining. Nay,     "That's rank injustice done me! I restrict     "The poet? Don't I hold the poet picked     "Out of a host of warriors, statesmen . . . did     "I tell you? Very like! As well you hid     "That sense of power, you have! True bards believe     "All able to achieve what they achieve     "That is, just nothing in one point abide     "Profounder simpletons than all beside.     "Oh, ay! The knowledge that you are a bard     "Must constitute your prime, nay sole, reward!"     So prattled Naddo, busiest of the tribe     Of genius-haunters how shall I describe     What grubs or nips or rubs or rips your louse     For love, your flea for hate, magnanimous,     Malignant, Pappacoda, Tagliafer,     Picking a sustenance from wear and tear     By implements it sedulous employs     To undertake, lay down, mete out, o'er-toise     Sordello? Fifty creepers to elude     At once! They settled staunchly; shame ensued:     Behold the monarch of mankind succumb     To the last fool who turned him round his thumb,     As Naddo styled it! 'T was not worth oppose     The matter of a moment, gainsay those     He aimed at getting rid of; better think     Their thoughts and speak their speech, secure to slink     Back expeditiously to his safe place,     And chew the cud what he and what his race     Were really, each of them. Yet even this     Conformity was partial. He would miss     Some point, brought into contact with them ere     Assured in what small segment of the sphere     Of his existence they attended him;     Whence blunders, falsehoods rectified a grim     List slur it over! How? If dreams were tried,     His will swayed sicklily from side to side,     Nor merely neutralized his waking act     But tended e'en in fancy to distract     The intermediate will, the choice of means.     He lost the art of dreaming: Mantuan scenes     Supplied a baron, say, he sang before,     Handsomely reckless, full to running-o'er     Of gallantries; "abjure the soul, content     "With body, therefore!" Scarcely had he bent     Himself in dream thus low, when matter fast     Cried out, he found, for spirit to contrast     And task it duly; by advances slight,     The simple stuff becoming composite,     Count Lori grew Apollo: best recall     His fancy! Then would some rough peasant-Paul,     Like those old Ecelin confers with, glance     His gay apparel o'er; that countenance     Gathered his shattered fancies into one,     And, body clean abolished, soul alone     Sufficed the grey Paulician: by and by,     To balance the ethereality,     Passions were needed; foiled he sank again.     Meanwhile the world rejoiced ('t is time explain)     Because a sudden sickness set it free     From Adelaide. Missing the mother-bee,     Her mountain-hive Romano swarmed; at once     A rustle-forth of daughters and of sons     Blackened the valley. "I am sick too, old,     "Half-crazed I think; what good's the Kaiser's gold     "To such an one? God help me! for I catch     "My children's greedy sparkling eyes at watch     "'He bears that double breastplate on,' they say,     "'So many minutes less than yesterday!'     "Beside, Monk Hilary is on his knees     "Now, sworn to kneel and pray till God shall please     "Exact a punishment for many things     "You know, and some you never knew; which brings     "To memory, Azzo's sister Beatrix     "And Richard's Giglia are my Alberic's     "And Ecelin's betrothed; the Count himself     "Must get my Palma: Ghibellin and Guelf     "Mean to embrace each other." So began     Romano's missive to his fighting man     Taurello on the Tuscan's death, away     With Friedrich sworn to sail from Naples' bay     Next month for Syria. Never thunder-clap     Out of Vesuvius' throat, like this mishap     Startled him. "That accursed Vicenza! I     "Absent, and she selects this time to die!     "Ho, fellows, for Vicenza!" Half a score     Of horses ridden dead, he stood before     Romano in his reeking spurs: too late     "Boniface urged me, Este could not wait,"     The chieftain stammered; "let me die in peace     "Forget me! Was it I who craved increase     "Of rule? Do you and Friedrich plot your worst     "Against the Father: as you found me first     "So leave me now. Forgive me! Palma, sure,     "Is at Goito still. Retain that lure     "Only be pacified!"     The country rung     With such a piece of news: on every tongue,     How Ecelin's great servant, congeed off,     Had done a long day's service, so, might doff     The green and yellow, and recover breath     At Mantua, whither, since Retrude's death,     (The girlish slip of a Sicilian bride     From Otho's house, he carried to reside     At Mantua till the Ferrarese should pile     A structure worthy her imperial style,     The gardens raise, the statues there enshrine,     She never lived to see) although his line     Was ancient in her archives and she took     A pride in him, that city, nor forsook     Her child when he forsook himself and spent     A prowess on Romano surely meant     For his own growth whither he ne'er resorts     If wholly satisfied (to trust reports)     With Ecelin. So, forward in a trice     Were shows to greet him. "Take a friend's advice,"     Quoth Naddo to Sordello, "nor be rash     "Because your rivals (nothing can abash     "Some folks) demur that we pronounced you best     "To sound the great man's welcome; 't is a test,     "Remember! Strojavacca looks asquint,     "The rough fat sloven; and there 's plenty hint     "Your pinions have received of late a shock     "Outsoar them, cobswan of the silver flock!     "Sing well!" A signal wonder, song 's no whit     Facilitated.     Fast the minutes flit;     Another day, Sordello finds, will bring     The soldier, and he cannot choose but sing;     So, a last shift, quits Mantua slow, alone:     Out of that aching brain, a very stone,     Song must be struck. What occupies that front?     Just how he was more awkward than his wont     The night before, when Naddo, who had seen     Taurello on his progress, praised the mien     For dignity no crosses could affect     Such was a joy, and might not he detect     A satisfaction if established joys     Were proved imposture? Poetry annoys     Its utmost: wherefore fret? Verses may come     Or keep away! And thus he wandered, dumb     Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent,     On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went,     Yielding himself up as to an embrace.     The moon came out; like features of a face,     A querulous fraternity of pines,     Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines     Also came out, made gradually up     The picture; 't was Goito's mountain-cup     And castle. He had dropped through one defile     He never dared explore, the Chief erewhile     Had vanished by. Back rushed the dream, enwrapped     Him wholly. 'T was Apollo now they lapped,     Those mountains, not a pettish minstrel meant     To wear his soul away in discontent,     Brooding on fortune's malice. Heart and brain     Swelled; he expanded to himself again,     As some thin seedling spice-tree starved and frail,     Pushing between cat's head and ibis' tail     Crusted into the porphyry pavement smooth,     Suffered remain just as it sprung, to soothe     The Soldan's pining daughter, never yet     Well in her chilly green-glazed minaret,     When rooted up, the sunny day she died,     And flung into the common court beside     Its parent tree. Come home, Sordello! Soon     Was he low muttering, beneath the moon,     Of sorrow saved, of quiet evermore,     Since from the purpose, he maintained before,     Only resulted wailing and hot tears.     Ah, the slim castle! dwindled of late years,     But more mysterious; gone to ruin trails     Of vine through every loop-hole. Nought avails     The night as, torch in hand, he must explore     The maple chamber: did I say, its floor     Was made of intersecting cedar beams?     Worn now with gaps so large, there blew cold streams     Of air quite from the dungeon; lay your ear     Close and 't is like, one after one, you hear     In the blind darkness water drop. The nests     And nooks retain their long ranged vesture-chests     Empty and smelling of the iris root     The Tuscan grated o'er them to recruit     Her wasted wits. Palma was gone that day,     Said the remaining women. Last, he lay     Beside the Carian group reserved and still.     The Body, the Machine for Acting Will,     Had been at the commencement proved unfit;     That for Demonstrating, Reflecting it,     Mankind no fitter: was the Will Itself     In fault?     His forehead pressed the moonlit shelf     Beside the youngest marble maid awhile;     Then, raising it, he thought, with a long smile,     "I shall be king again!" as he withdrew     The envied scarf; into the font he threw     His crown     Next day, no poet! "Wherefore?" asked     Taurello, when the dance of Jongleurs, masked     As devils, ended; "don't a song come next?"     The master of the pageant looked perplexed     Till Naddo's whisper came to his relief.     "His Highness knew what poets were: in brief,     "Had not the tetchy race prescriptive right     "To peevishness, caprice? or, call it spite,     "One must receive their nature in its length     "And breadth, expect the weakness with the strength!"     So phrasing, till, his stock of phrases spent,     The easy-natured soldier smiled assent,     Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin,     And nodded that the bull-bait might begin.